One Less Chair
by Cherenmay
Summary: An old man reflects on his life and choices he's made. One Shot.


All right, I was just listening through some of my music when one of my favorite songs ever came up through the shuffle. Then, I was hit with an idea, so I ran with it. Hope you enjoy it

Disclaimer: Neither any Harry Potter things or the song "Empty Chairs at Empty Tables" belong to me.

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One Less Chair

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A lone figure opened the door into the shadowed room, lurking in the doorway as he studied the place before him. It was lined with dust and bits of debris from the long decades it had remained undisturbed. No one save him had seen the interior in sixty-seven years. 'It has been a long time,' he thought to himself sadly. 'Too long.'

_There's a grief that can't be spoken_

_There's a pain goes on and on_

With a shuddering breath he stepped forward, limping slightly on his right foot, and leaving footprints on the grimy floor. His gnarled and aged hand groped at the wall for support as tears welled in his eyes. He could remember countless meetings here with his friends, countless parties and laughs, countless prayers for victory. He could see himself, his thin and dark-haired younger self amidst them, planning at the very table that took the center position of the room.

_Empty chairs at empty tables_

_Now my friends are dead and gone_

As he touched the back of one of the remaining chairs, he felt himself transported to a time he hadn't dwelled on since he was there. He could see them around him, his friends of old, friends he had almost forgotten. He could hear them, their plans, their hopes, their dreams, all being spilled out and laid forth so that they might all be able to dream of a better future, a future that fit them. Their plans of overthrowing the oppressive forces before them, the forces that kept them frightened for their lives, though they didn't dare show it. They created so many plans, so many ideas to win. And in the end, he remembered how they had all failed.

_Here they talked of revolution_

_Here it was they lit the flame_

_Here they sang about tomorrow_

_And tomorrow never came_

All the men and women, talented men and women, he had known and loved, all of the friends he had cherished throughout his school years, and all those he was not close with, but cared for nevertheless. They had all sat around this table at some point or another, taking comfort in those who supported the same cause as they. He could see them; see himself, dreaming of a place that had yet to be born. He could see the tears in the eyes of a tall, but proud, friend as he saw the dream he had harbored become close to reality and the same tears in the eyes of the woman he had his arm about. He could see himself, smiling and laughing, dreaming of a day when he would be free to simply be himself. He could see those dreams in their heads and eyes, the hope in their words. And it was all lost.

_From the table in the corner_

_They could see a world reborn_

_And they rose with voices ringing_

_And I can hear them now_

That night before the fight, none of them as young as they should have been, taking that last chance to be together, somehow knowing that some of them would not be returning to this dimly lit room for late night chats and talks of days gone by. But they had not said goodbye, not these determined people. They had spoken of victory. They had spoken of that world they fought for.

_The very words that they had sung_

_Became their last communion_

_On the lonely barricade at dawn_

They had all died on that battlefield on the grounds of Hogwarts, the safest place in the entire Wizarding world. They had fallen at the hands of the enemy. They had fought valiantly, of course, but in the end, the opposing force was not to be denied. They were too great, too many. And when it came down to it, their dream, their dream that was so real, so close to their hearts, was nothing more than just that.

_Oh, my friends, my friends, forgive me_

_That I live and you are gone_

_There's a grief that can't be spoken_

_There's a pain goes on and on_

And he looked around and it was painful. There were too many memories here, in this rundown room. Too many faces and words he wanted to forget. But the longer he stayed the more real they became. The more tangible the smell of dust and age became, the more he felt himself in a time long past. The longer his hand rested against that chair, his chair, the harder it was to pull away from the memory.

_Phantom faces at the window_

_Phantom shadows on the floor_

_Empty chairs at empty tables_

_Where my friends will meet no more_

He wept. It was difficult not to. Such hopes and dreams and crushing reality. These men and women he missed, these shapes and figures of long ago. But the tears were not enough for the grief. His hands shook and he had to fight to remain standing. He was a frail man by now, and he had learned to live his life in lies, learned to survive in a world he had hoped to defeat. But he could see them, in his eyes, the disapproval they must have for him, the disappointment.

_Oh, my friends, my friends, don't ask me_

_What your sacrifice was for_

They had died for that which they had believed in and he remained, a traitor and a fake. Everything he had once stood for was lost in age and fear. They were martyrs, people who cared so much for the cause that they were unafraid; they were willing to give up everything they had for it. And they did. They gave everything and he gave nothing. And he was left behind to face the aftermath. He forced himself to release the chair through his tears. He turned and walked back to the door with heavier and more reluctant footsteps than those he had come in with.

_Empty chairs at empty tables_

_Where my friends will sing no more_

The man reached the door and took one last longing look at his old chair and his place in the circle. He took out his wand, slowly and shakily, and pointed it at the chair. With a quick spell, the chair was destroyed, nothing more than a pile of kindling at the old table where the chairs of his friends still sat, broken and forlorn, but standing. He didn't deserve a place with them anymore. He took in a shaky breath and turned back towards the door.

And so Severus Snape trudged back through into the world of the triumphant Harry Potter a crippled old man who had failed his friends, a man who had lost his friends, a man who did not enjoy the life he had bought with his betrayal.


End file.
